


Provoke to Harm

by Vitreous_Humor



Series: Angel on the Outward Side [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bad Sex, Body Weirdness, Dark, Dissociation, Lies, M/M, Prostitution, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Self-Harm, Shame, Twink!Aziraphale, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:22:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22301797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vitreous_Humor/pseuds/Vitreous_Humor
Summary: I am going to remember this,he thought, and it was different from how he remembered everything else. This was not marked in the distant grinding of four interlocked winged wheels, a million miles high and gazing at God through Her creation. Instead it was scored into a body that remembered in sweat and blood and muscle tremors and nerves.-Aziraphale experiments with sex and draws some truly unfortunate conclusions about what he gets out of it.
Relationships: Aziraphale (Good Omens)/Original Male Character(s), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Angel on the Outward Side [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1605307
Comments: 27
Kudos: 96





	Provoke to Harm

_London, 1479_

Crowley never asked him to do another temptation like the first, and Aziraphale was never quite sure how to feel about it. It was true that he found the whisperings of ambition and venality to be simpler than what he had done in Guildford, and it was certainly not as if he was eager for another try at the act in question.

However.

“ _You have to remember, I'm_ very _good at what I do. Mostly all it takes from_ me _is a nod and a wink, really...”_

Crowley's statement stung, especially when coupled with that nasty little comment about Aziraphale's own form, and it kept on stinging years after the fact.

He wasn't made to be a tempter, after all, but it wasn't as if he had done so badly with the man at Guildford. If he thought about it, which he did too often at first, he could easily recall the man's gasps of pleasure, the way his fingers had dug into his flesh as if afraid to let him go. Surely those were signs he had done well in that particular regard? As if inciting lust was some kind of advanced demonic trickery...

It was one night some fifty years after Guildford that, a little off and still irked by the whole matter, Aziraphale pulled up the shape he had used for his one and only seduction. One moment, he was in the form that he had comfortably worn for thousands of years without a single complaint, and the next, he wasn't.

Aziraphale snapped his fingers and a tall mirror appeared in the corner of the room. Good mirrors of that sort were still some seventy years in the future, but who cared? Certainly not the pretty boy reflected in the glass.

Aziraphale inspected himself carefully. He felt lesser like this, and not only in weight and shape and age. Minus twentyish years and a good chunk of his bulk, he looked-

 _Hungry_ , Aziraphale decided. The figure in the glass was not overly thin or waifish, but there was something starved about him, perhaps in the eyes that looked too large for his face, or the hands that felt a little too large and bony. Perhaps it was only that Aziraphale himself felt oddly hollow like this, as if he had somehow forgotten what it was to be full. He knew himself in his familiar form, knew his appetites and his pleasures. There was something untried about this one, used so briefly fifty years ago and then never again.

He wondered what might satisfy the person in the mirror. He briefly examined his hands and his teeth as if that might give him a clue. There was something dull about it, he decided. Sometimes, sensations came so quick and hot in his normal form that he could barely stand it. This one seemed a little sluggish, and he wondered why that was.

 _Perhaps it is because I have summoned it- summoned him?- into existence for one reason only,_ Aziraphale thought.

And then, because he had known from the beginning why he had put this form on, why he had clad him in dark blue and tinted his lips just that extra bit red, Aziraphale left his rooms and made his way along the nighttime streets.

The city was full of soldiers that year. It turned out that Edward was as bloody-minded as everyone had feared, and sooner rather than later, he was going to be making his try for France. Aziraphale had done his share of ministering to the soldiers and their families,but walking among them as a priest was quite different from walking among them now.

A nod and a wink, Crowley had said. He wondered where Crowley was now. He hadn't seen him for a decade or more. He-

Aziraphale nearly ran face-first into the soldier making his way down Kent Street, remembering at the last moment to fall back so the soldier wouldn't wonder why he had been knocked off his feet by a slender young man.

“Here, watch yourself-” the soldier started, but he cut himself off as he looked down into Aziraphale's face. For such a chilly night, Aziraphale knew that he was lightly dressed, his hair curling damp in the mist. He didn't nod or wink, but he did smile, and the man blinked.

“So what's your name, then?”

“Robbie,” Aziraphale said immediately, and wondered where that had come from. He admittedly didn't feel much like Aziraphale at the moment.

“Aye, Robbie, and whose man are you?”

The man likely thought he belonged with a lord's retinue. He might easily have been a courtier or a beloved bastard son, someone who should make a soldier properly wary and respectful.

“I'm no one's,” Aziraphale said, and then deliberately, “I could be yours.”

The man laughed at that, looking up and down the street. The mist was turning to rain, and the lane had emptied. There was something private about the moment, and Aziraphale felt a thrill at this odd intimacy, something he rarely shared with a human. Crowley might come close, whisper in ears, lay a soft consoling hand on a shaking shoulder, but Aziraphale's own miracles were usually performed from a distance. This... this felt close enough to touch, and as the man hesitated, Aziraphale did just that, raising his hand slowly and touching the base of the man's throat above the collar of his doublet. He liked the way the man swallowed hard.

“I don't think I can afford you...”

Aziraphale's breath caught in his chest at what he was doing. The hunger that he noticed before rose up, and now he couldn't call this form dull at all. Now he felt as sharp as a knife, and his smile grew wider.

“I think you can. Give me whatever you have in your purse.”

He held out his hand, and it struck him how wrong this was. An angel was not meant to take, not unless it was lives, and when the man dropped a few clipped coins in his palm, Aziraphale slid them into his purse without counting them.

“All right,” he said, and then the soldier's hand closed with painful tightness over his arm, tugging him off the street and down one of the narrow alleyways splitting off from it. Fascinated, Aziraphale allowed himself to be dragged along as if he were exactly what he looked like, an expensive boy out too late on a bad night.

He couldn't sense what a demon could, but he could sense love, and he could sense the absence of it. It was a terrible throbbing hollow, nothing to fill it at all as the man shoved him hard against the wall. He flailed, hands up against the brick to keep from crashing headlong into it, and he felt a nail on his left hand tear half away. The pain stung like something real, and oh, Robbie was mesmerized by it.

Aziraphale pushed away from the wall again so that the man would push him back, this time with a rough hand tangled in his hair. The soldier turned his face to one side. At least he wouldn't break his nose, but his cheek was scraped raw by the brick as the man tore at Aziraphale's breeches, dragging them halfway down his thighs.

“Fuck you,” Aziraphale spat in a voice that wasn't his own, and he felt the words come out furious and heated. “ _Fuck_ you for a misbegotten son of an Alsatian whore...”

He had never said those words before. Tonight was a night of firsts, apparently.

“Quiet, I'm not going to tear you, won't hurt you, just shut your fucking mouth...”

Aziraphale let the fear and anger roll over him, let them shake his body as the man exposed him. He hissed as a rough hand squeezed his rear hard enough to bruise, and then the man was fumbling with his own clothing. The next moment, he felt the soldier's cock pressing hard against him, and the choked, outraged sound he made scarcely sounded like him at all.

To his surprise, the man's hand gentled in his hair, and his words took on a wheedling note.

“Oh, shush, shush, be calm, I told you I won't hurt you, didn't I? Only you're so beautiful, only let me...”

Aziraphale stilled at that, and if he had liked being taken by the arm and manhandled, he liked being called beautiful even more.

“Call me that again, and you can do as you like,” he said, and the man swallowed hard.

A moment later, a pair of fingers stroked gently, a little nervously at his lower lip, and then when he didn't immediately bite, entered his mouth. They tasted foul, but Robbie apparently didn't mind that, because a moment later, Aziraphale found himself sucking on them, his head tilted to one side so that the man could gag him. His entire body heaved when it went too far, and he had to stop himself from shoving the man away. He gave him a warning bite instead, and his teeth clicked together as the hand pulled away.

“Beautiful, so beautiful, ought not be let out, who knows what could happen to you.”

He heard the soldier spit, felt him fumble, and then he was pushed back against the wall with the man's cock pushed hard against him, sliding over his hole roughly before he tried to shove it in. Aziraphale- Robbie?-swore, and the soldier clapped a hand over his mouth again.

“Quiet, you're so very beautiful, aren't you, I've got just what you need here, pretty boy like you...”

It was uncomfortable to begin with, and then it turned to pain as he was breached, and Aziraphale's new body clamped down hard on the sizzling tearing sensation the man was forcing on him. It felt disgusting and dull at the same time. It had nothing to do with him, not the man grunting in his ear, or the hand over his mouth or the way the man kept pushing to gain enough leverage to fuck him properly.

 _Oh, what a nightmare they have made out of something we designed to be joyful,_ he thought with dismay. _Why would-?_

And at the same time, he knew, or this incarnation did. There was a terrible satisfaction to it as well even as he ached and as furious tears dripped down his face and over the soldier's fingers. He was enraptured by the physicality of what was happening to him and how it sought to consume him entirely. There would be nothing of him left whole or untouched by this act, not after how he had chosen to do it.

 _I am going to remember this,_ he thought, and it was different from how he remembered everything else. This was not marked in the distant grinding of four interlocked winged wheels, a million miles high and gazing at God through Her creation. Instead it was scored into a body that remembered in sweat and blood and muscle tremors and nerves. His bloody broken nails, the sickening feeling of the man finally pushed flush against him, the stinging scraped skin of his cheek where he knocked his face against the wall, they became pieces of him, locked in this body and held like insects in amber.

The man groaned, pulling out as he came and leaving a stream of viscous wetness down the back of Aziraphale's thigh. For a long moment, Robbie only listened to him breathe and thought coldly of how much he hated this.

“Fucking... here, let me...”

The man's hands were on him again, tugging his breeches up, and Aziraphale pushed him back so he could take care of it himself. He felt better clothed, and also slightly disgusting from what the man had left on him and in him.

“Look... no hard feelings-”

Robbie hit him. Robbie did not hit as hard as Aziraphale could, but it was hard enough to throw the man across the alley, to make his jaw creak on its hinge and to make sure that his head rang softly for the rest of his life. The smartest decision the soldier made that entire night, probably in his entire life, was simply to run, stumbling, down the alley and away from whatever it was he had fucked.

The rain was a steady patter by the time Aziraphale made it back to his rooms, and something about the sound soothed him and made him realize how hard he was shaking and how stiffly he was moving.

 _Oh what in the world,_ he thought, and with a snap of his fingers, he was in his own form again, the real one. The other was only a construct and a figment, nothing real. It was... something to enjoy, the way he enjoyed his food and his wine and his music, though there was a small part of Aziraphale that very much doubted that _enjoy_ was the right word at all.

He was still gingerly touching his body to make sure that everything had returned to its formerly pristine condition when there was a knock on the door. When he opened it, it was Crowley on the doorstep, wet to the skin from the rain and with a triumphant grin on his face.

“You'll never guess what, angel,” he said, as if they had seen each just yesterday, rather than some thirteen years ago. “I've been in Madrid, and you'll never guess what I've done.”

Aziraphale couldn't stop a wry grin from crossing his face as he stepped aside to let Crowley in, offering up a bit of a miracle to dry his clothes.

“I'm sure you'll tell me,” he said, closing the door after him.

“I am going to tell you at length and in detail,” Crowley said cheerfully, “and- hm. Um.”

Crowley trailed off, looking around with a frown.

“Yes?”

“Something smells strange in here. Kinda. Um. Well... not evil, quite, but it's not on the up and up either. Never smelled that around here before...”

“Oh, it's the pair of forgers that moved in downstairs,” Aziraphale said with a shrug. “I have not been able to do a thing with them, but there's hope yet, I think.”

“Just like you, Aziraphale,” Crowley said with something that threatened to be affection. “Always hoping for the best, you.”

“Rather part of the job,” said Aziraphale easily, and he sat down to hear Crowley's new stories

**Author's Note:**

> -(me while writing this) Do not bring your Hannibal instincts into this, do not bring your Hannibal instincts into this, do not...
> 
> -People not to meet in a dark alley: Aziraphale while he's playing Robbie. When you can not only make a pseudonym but a whole damn other body to contain what you consider your unacceptable impulses, things can get pretty wild. 
> 
> -I guess I have moved from the bad kink tag to the bad sex tag.
> 
> -There are two parts left to this series, and there is a happy ending, I think.
> 
> -If anyone would like to explain to me what this series is actually about, I am all ears. 'Cause I'm not sure I know.


End file.
